Halt in the Name
by horseislove
Summary: He is known throughout Araluen as a legend. But what was Halt's own apprenticeship like? (Canon through all 10 novels, but does NOT comply with Flanagan's short story)
1. Semiconsciousness

The cold … it's too much … too much to bear … my shoulder burns despite it … my fingers may no longer be where they should … I lay in the puddle, the river, the lake, the sea of ice … hoping … to quiet the burn … hoping against hope … someone … anyone but him … finds me … takes me home … protects me … from the monster … the monster … the monster … that is my … jealous … dangerous … brother.

I close my eyes.

* * *

It was a dream. It was not real. My brother is a kind and honorable man. He is not crazy.

Why does my shoulder burn?

My brother was not jealous last night. He did not harm me. I know he would never do such a thing. He would go insane, become the man of my nightmare, if he did.

* * *

"He is alive."

Of course I'm alive.

"Are you sure, Mother?"

She doesn't respond. At least not in any way I can hear her.

* * *

I groan. My eyes are too heavy to open. My arms cannot move. My shoulder still burns.

"Has he woken yet?"

"No, Ranger."

A Ranger of Araluen? Here? I must leave. Soon his dark magic will be strong enough that I can't. Then what will become of me?


	2. Awake

The coolness feels good on my head. It usually just sits there, still, unmoving. This time is different. It disappears, splashes, returns to my forehead, travels over my face. Over and over. Continuously working.

A man is sitting next to me when my eyes finally open. He dips his rag in the bucket next to him and looks up to return it to my face. Relief, quickly concealed, sits behind those quietly knowing eyes.

I move to sit up, and my shoulder is enveloped in flame. The burns won't stop. "Water," I try to say. "Put out the fire." My mouth makes no sound.

The man pushes me back down on the bed. The burns retreat. Partially. Only partially. My shoulder still throbs, beats, pulses with their memory.

"Mara has been taking good care of you. Let's not ruin her hard work with hastiness. The time will come when you will be healed, but it is not yet here. We must be patient."

Patient. I used to be patient, I think. I remember anxiety, about Ferris's moods. Fear, when he came home in a rage. Grief, when he … when he … deserted me. But patient? I don't remember patient. It is a lifetime ago that I may have been patient. Content to sit and wait and see what would happen.

"Boy, are you well?" The man brings me back to reality.

I nod. Perhaps this is patient, this not doing anything but sitting and waiting.

"What is your name?"

"Halt." It's barely a whisper, and I have to nearly shout to achieve even that.

"I am Aron."

I nod, not having the energy to try to say anything more. I'm hungry, though. I need a way to tell this man. Aron.

He deserts me suddenly, and I am alone. He doesn't care about me. No one ever does. I am a boy, small and scrawny. I look closer to fourteen than my real seventeen. No doubt Aron thinks he is caring for a little boy instead of a young man. And little boys have no real value except for the fact that they will one day become men. Strong, useful, valuable men.

He is back. Carrying a bowl. Was my hunger that obvious?

"You've been out for four days, Halt. Perhaps more, because you were unconscious when I found you. Try to eat something."

So he didn't know. Four days? It can't have been. That would make today … when exactly? I realize I don't know what day I ran from home, from him.

But it doesn't matter. Aron has food for me. Broth, probably, by the smell of it.

I don't have the strength to hold the bowl for any length of time. Aron will have to help me. An embarrassing prospect, at the very least. He doesn't care, or doesn't let me know if he does. He holds a spoon to my mouth. Stew, not broth. The ingredients are finely chopped, but there all the same. I manage a smile.

He understands. "Broth is good when you can't handle anything more. Stew is good when you need to build up strength. Don't tell Mara about this, though. She'd skin me alive. And speaking of Mara … I need to go. I promise to explain later."

"Who's there?" A voice, unfamiliar to me, from somewhere I can't see.

"Too late," he mutters, then walks to the next room and raises his voice. "It's only me."

"_Only you? ONLY YOU!_" She is attacking Aron, near hysterics. "You promised to stay out of this when you brought him here. Or have you forgotten? I thought _your _people had good memory. Isn't that your job? What are you doing in my house?"

"Your daughter was supposed to stay and care for him while you were gone, was she not? She ran off with some boy as soon as you were out of sight. Planning, I'm sure, to be back before you. But in the meantime, Halt was left unattended. What would have happened if I had not been here when he woke?"

"He's awake? The poor boy." I groan to myself. I am most certainly not a poor boy. I like Aron much better than Mara. Her tone is suddenly sharper, accusing. "This is not your business, Ranger. Get out of my house."


	3. Confrontation

Aron is a Ranger. A Ranger? No, Mara must be mistaken. Rangers are black magicians. Aron is not a black magician. He cannot be a Ranger, then. But he is, or Mara would not have called him one. Could she be mistaken?

My thoughts whirl in circles until she comes in. "You poor, poor boy! What did the Ranger do to you? He promised he would not come into my house. He is an oath-breaker. But did he harm you at all?"

Do I have the strength to talk, to tell her that he took care of me? I open my mouth. "Who are you?" My voice is not strong, but definitely improving since earlier today, returning quickly. I keep talking. "Is Aron really a Ranger? He doesn't seem like a black magician. He was kind to me." And he didn't call me a poor boy, I add silently.

"He is a Ranger, boy, make no doubt about that. He wishes to draw you in, make you trust him. Then he will use his black magic. You will be enslaved to his will, unable to even think on your own. And then," she shuddered, "who knows?"

But Aron is not a black magician. My thoughts begin to circle again, until I come to a conclusion. Rangers do not harm anyone without reason. Or at least all the stories give reasons for their attacks. Black magicians are evil. Rangers may have the ability to use magic, but not black magic. They don't seem evil.

"I trust him."

Mara just looks at me, her mouth wide. "You can't trust him! He'll kill you! He'll kill us all! He is a black magician, boy!"

"My name," I tell her, ready to explode, "is Halt. Aron, the Ranger, is not a black magician. He is trustworthy." I know, but I have no idea _how_ I know. It's just a feeling, but I have to be certain to convince Mara. "He took care of me when you left. Differently than you did. He actually cared whether I make it." I'm making no sense now, and decide I may as well throw in a few more guesses. "He's paying you to take care of me, isn't he? Probably based on how long I'm here. So naturally, you want me to be here a long time. You won't take good care of me because you're a greedy old witch!"

Aron is standing in the doorway. When did he arrive? He nods slowly, almost imperceptibly, then places a finger in front of his mouth. Be quiet.

I glance at Mara. She is stunned, shocked into silence. My wild guess must have hit home. I am disgusted with her, but relieved that Aron is here. He'll know what to do.

Aron is behind her, moving silently. At last, his hand reaches his shoulder, and she jumps up, shouting what must be a string of profanity in a language I don't recognize. His expression never changes, and he lets her wear herself out before he replies. A single word. "Mara." And he walks around her as if she wasn't even there.

"Halt, do you believe what you told her?"

"How long were you listening?"

"Long enough to hear your little speech. Do you believe it?"

"I … yes. But I don't know why. I just do." It's embarrassing to have to admit it.

"Good. Then there are a few things I must tell you." He looks at the woman now huddled in the corner of the room. "Alone, if Mara will consent to leave us."


	4. Exchange

"You are right about Mara. I pay her to care for you, and I've been keeping an eye on her. Not being a skilled healer myself, I was not sure how to care for someone who was unconscious. I suppose I could have taken you to the castle, where you would have been cared for without charge, but I frighten the healers. They may have refused to care for you because of who I am. The Baron doesn't especially like me either. I am one of those meddling Rangers, after all.

"You seem to know a lot about Rangers for, forgive me, a commoner. Most people are scared stiff at merely the mention of the Rangers, our friend Mara providing an excellent example. Why are you different?"

"I'm not."

"You told her that I was not a black magician," he reminds me.

"You're not. But I don't know any other Rangers, so I have to rely on what I know about one. It's like hearing all your life that wheels are round, but never having seen one. When you see a square wheel, does that mean that all wheels are square, or just this one? You've never seen any others," I remind him.

"Wise for one so young. Tell me, Halt, what you can guess about all wheels based on that single pesky square one."

"Well … maybe all wheels aren't what you expect." Aron looks intrigued, so I continue. "Maybe they can all be different. Squares, triangles, hexagons … and circles. There could be some that are exactly what you expect."

"So how does this relate to Rangers?"

"They – you – aren't all black magicians just because that's all I've ever heard about you. Maybe a lot of you aren't, but it's possible that at least a few are."

"There is one problem with your theory about wheels. You've heard all your life that wheels are square, and now you've found a round one. Square wheels have a tendency to not work nearly as well as round ones. A Wagoner would throw a fit if his apprentices liked to make the square variety. A Ranger that was a black magician, or any kind of magician for that matter … let's just say it wouldn't sit too well with the rest of the Corps."

"You said you had to talk to me about something. It had to have been about more than whether I trust Rangers. What's so important?"

"Observant. I like that. Mara strongly disagrees with me on this point, so I would like her to stop listening at the door, please." He waits a moment. "Mara, I know you haven't left that spot, yet. Much better." He turns his attention back to me. "You deserve to know … the state you were in when I found you. And I wish to know why I found you that way. A fair trade?"

I nod, reluctantly. I do not wish to share those memories, but I need to know just how bad it was. To solidify the decision taking shape in my mind.

"I was on a routine patrol when I noticed something shaking in the snow-covered road. I moved to investigate, and found a boy. Your lips blue, your fingers swollen, your eyes puffy and red, your clothes soaked through, your entire shoulder twisted at an unnatural angle, and absolutely no sign of consciousness, though I knew you lived.

"I had no clue what to do. Rangers can take care of many things, but the combination affecting you was challenging, to say the least. A healer, Mara, was nearby, so I brought you to her cottage for care. She recognized me instantly for what I am and declared that I may not set foot in her house.

"Needless to say, I did sneak in, mostly to check on you when I knew she wasn't paying any attention to you. Especially when I knew there was no one here that could find me.

"It was during one of these visits that you woke. I was pleased that I was the one caring for you at the moment, not Mara. I had a chance to meet you before you could form any prejudices based on what she told you. And I was glad to find, today, that you seem to have quite an open mind."

It's quiet for a few moments. He told me what he promised to, and now I have to keep my side of the bargain. But where do I start?

"I have a brother—a twin brother seven minutes younger than myself. I always felt bad for him, because he felt cheated. He was the one who wanted to be king, and I didn't care. When I offered to abdicate—"

Aron interrupts. "You are from Hibernia, correct, Halt? And this brother—would he be Ferris?"

"Yes. How would you know?"

"The Rangers have kept an eye on the royal family of Hibernia—all with the name Carrick, in short—since the birth of the twins. If two young men desperately want to become king, traditionally the younger will conquer another country to best his brother. Araluen, so large and so close to Hibernia, would be the logical choice. We watched two boys grow, and rumors spread. The older often went unmentioned, overshadowed by Ferris's friendly, cheerful personality. His older brother was quite moody, from what we could gather. We never even knew your name—everyone seemed to call you Young Carrick. So tell me—what has Ferris done this time?"


	5. Story

"He wanted the throne. Almost a year and a half ago, I got horribly sick eating shrimp at dinner. I was in bed for days, and everyone came to see me, to make sure I was getting better. Caitlyn told me—"

Aron interrupts. "Caitlyn?"

"My sister." At least he doesn't know everything about my family. "She told me that Ferris seemed worried. He was afraid to come into my room—he was the only one who wouldn't—because he's always been terrified of sickness. It was a perfect excuse." Even I'm surprised by the venom in my tone. "He knew I wasn't sick. He knew what was wrong with me. And he was afraid that I knew, too. Even after I had recovered, he kept his distance. If I had known why, I think I would have just left. As it was, I teased him constantly, saying a prince shouldn't be a coward.

"We had an especially bad fight one day. He said he hated me. I was mad—livid— and said when I was the king of Clonmel, I would have him thrown in prison for the rest of his life. He asked how I knew I would be king instead of him. It was obvious, I told him. I was older. He stalked off inside, and I walked around outside a bit to calm down before Caitlyn saw me. She hated it when I Ferris and I fought with each other.

"As I was walking, still seething, a large pile of roof tiles—more than ever come off at one time by natural means, looking back at the incident—hit the ground just behind where I was walking. Naturally, I jumped, then managed to relax enough to realize that my father would want to know that more roof tiles had come down. I would have to tell him where they came from, so I looked up at the roof.

"Ferris was pulling in a pole from the window above that section of the roof. I figured he had seen the slide and grabbed the pole to test the nearby tiles. He glanced down at the tiles on the ground, and looked furious about something. Our eyes met, completely by accident—mine questioning, his cold and mean. I took off running. Ferris had actually tried to kill me, and had nearly succeeded. If the tiles had come free when he had wanted them to, I would be dead.

"Almost a year after that, really probably just a few days ago, we were salmon fishing. It was just sport—we didn't need the food. I fell—was shoved—out of the boat, and Ferris reached out with the oar. I made to grab it, and he swung. He said I was out of reach and he was trying to get it to me, but on his second try he hit me on the shoulder so hard that there was no denying his real purpose. He was livid when I swam toward shore and got away, but he had no way of knowing how hard it was. Any moving my shoulder caused unbearable pain, so I swam with my legs and one arm. And that rat had the indecency to pretend he hadn't just tried to murder me for the second time.

"I wouldn't go near him. Something was off, had snapped, and he was not in control. He noticed it, and started trying to force me to come near him. When I still refused, he grabbed the oar and tried to hit me again.

"I remember the exact words he shouted at me: 'Halt, you should be dead three times. You don't deserve to be king. No one likes you. Not even your own brother.' I already knew he wanted me dead, but it hurt nonetheless to hear that.

"I left. Even if I were to offer to abdicate, I could see he wouldn't trust me. I either had to leave, or die. So I ran, with one badly hurt shoulder. I didn't even go back to the palace for my battlehorse, because I couldn't face Caitlyn knowing what I was going to do to her.

"I ran for days, and I fell asleep wherever I happened to be when it got dark. I crossed the sea to Araluen in a haze, then kept trying to run. It was then that I tripped. I couldn't get up, but I had to. I needed to put as much distance as possible between us. I forced myself to my feet and walked. Any faster would have been impossible.

"It started raining, and I was cold. I couldn't go to an inn because I thought I might be recognized, even here. He would find me and try to finish the job. The next thing I can remember is waking up in this room."

As hard as the story was to start, I am glad Aron knows. He is a Ranger, so he'll know what to do.


	6. Freedom

"Thank you." Aron has not said another word since the conclusion of my…story. He opens his mouth, yet again, to tell me something. Closes it before he has a chance to say anything. Reluctance to pry, maybe? Or something more?

"Aron, sir?" My voice is almost inaudible, even to myself. Impossibly, he hears it.

"Yes?" He is inquisitive, but guarded. He doesn't want to make me reveal more than I want to tell. Inconceivably, he respects me.

"I … just wanted to know … if you'll make me … if I have to … go … back."

He sighs, and relaxes. "Do you want to go back?"

"_No!_" The force of my response startles us both.

"Then you most definitely do not have to return to Hibernia. I would recommend, however, trying to lose as much of your accent as possible. Araluens don't necessarily trust some of their neighbors."

That could take some time, and until I seem like one of them, how can I hope to survive here?

"I just don't know what to do with you, Halt. I know you could probably take care of yourself, but I would feel too guilty leaving you on your own. You obviously can't stay here; Mara hates you because you didn't push me away screaming. Anyone at the castle may recognize you, or at least your accent, too easily. How would you feel about coming with me for the time being?"

I would love it. But I can't just say that—I have to think for a moment. "Are you sure?"

"You've been through a lot lately. I wouldn't expect you to want to deal with too much right now. Besides, I could teach you a few things that might come in handy later."

"When can we leave here, then?"

"Can you travel?"

"I can try. I'll manage as long as we don't move too quickly."

"Then we'll leave now. Get up; we have to get going before Mara gets back."

"Where is she?"

"Out in her garden, most likely pouting. I've noticed that's where she goes when she's upset about something, and I heard her leave the house a few minutes ago. Hurry, now."

I force myself to ignore the pain as I sit up, and find that it's not too bad once I'm standing. I actually will manage to travel with Aron.

Since I ran away with nothing, I can depart Mara's with nothing. Having so few possessions makes moving around much easier, and I decide instantly that I'll never miss the life of a crown prince.

Aron scratches out a quick note to Mara, and leaves several coins with it on her table. He sees me looking and explains, "I did agree to pay her. I'm not one to go back on my word."

Before I know it, we're on a woodland path leading away from the cabin, and the freedom to do what I want with my life is exhilarating. I never cared before. I thought I was free, but I saw the throne as a privilege instead of an obligation. Ferris will have to come to that realization on his own.


	7. Decision

Aron's cabin sits directly under an enormous tree, in a clearing where little else grows because of the shade. He leads me up onto the porch and though the door, into a small living area and kitchen. Two doors lead off this room, and Aron motions me towards the one on the left. "Make yourself at home, Halt. Dinner will be ready in an hour. Feel free to explore, but if you're not back, you don't eat. If you don't show up before dark, I'll come looking for you."

In my room are a bed, a desk, and a trunk. It's simply furnished, and nothing like my spacious wing in Dun Kilty. I find myself already becoming attached to it nonetheless.

I untie the knot on the rough sling Aron gave me while we traveled, as my shoulder became sore. Now that I have a place to sit and relax, I can make a slightly more effective one. I've had plenty of experience with injuries living with Ferris. I don't need to use the whole sheet Aron took from Mara's house, and I suspect he's never had much experience with injuries like this. I rip a thick strip and tie a knot in it behind my neck. My arm can rest in the center of it to take the weight off my shoulder, and a band around my chest just above my arm further restricts movement.

Using my left hand to make this sling was harder than I expected, and I realize I'm going to have to learn to cope without use of my right arm for a few days. Thankfully, my shoulder only seems bruised, not broken.

How would my family react to the fact that I'm actually wearing a sling? It would be a familiar sight to Caitlyn, as she always saw me right after I'd had a disagreement with Ferris and we had gotten into a fight. But even she would be surprised by the fact that I'm wearing it willingly. Father would order me to remove it at once because, according to him, the Crown Prince never gets hurt. Mother would be concerned, and urge me to take it off so I wouldn't upset Father. Ferris would take advantage of me and try yet again to attack. He never knew how horribly beat up I was after each fight we had, or he would have gotten rid of me then.

I have nothing to leave in the room, so I head back into the kitchen. I have no clue why Aron is laboring over the fire himself; a Ranger should have at least one servant, shouldn't he?

As if he senses me watching, Aron turns around. "If you're just going to stand there gawking, you could make yourself useful."

"I don't know how to cook."

"Of course not. Anything to get out of work. Come chop this onion for me, Halt." He throws an onion at me, and I barely catch it. "You're not left-handed, are you?"

"No."

He sighs resignedly. "Then you can at least use your left hand to stir the stew. Don't let it stick to the bottom of the pot or it'll burn."

The large wooden spoon is still tricky to maneuver with my left hand. Careful to scrape the bottom of the pot frequently, I do my best to make sure the stew is stirred well.

When he ladles my stew into a bowl, Aron places it on the table so I can feed myself with one hand. The process is slow, and Aron is already on his second bowl before I manage to finish mine. At least I'm able to eat the whole thing without spilling it all over his cabin or myself.

We're sitting on the porch peacefully after dinner when Aron breaks the silence. "I've gotten myself into a fairly good-sized mess with you, Halt. The annual Gathering is in two weeks, and I either have to declare you my apprentice or you can't come. I would do it instantly, but it would put you at a severe disadvantage to the other apprentices, who have already been learning for a year. You may not even be able to pass the first year examination without the use of your arm unless I can convince Quinton to adapt it to your unique situation."

"What would I have to do to pass the examination?"

"Demonstrate your abilities at tracking, camouflage, knife throwing—and shooting a bow."

It seemed fairly doable until that last requirement. "I don't know if I'll be capable of even drawing a bow within two weeks, let alone be able to hit anything with it."

"So you see my dilemma."

"I'll learn what I can in two weeks. If I fail, I fail. I want to learn to be a Ranger."

Aron smiles at me. "I was hoping you'd say that."


	8. Meeting

It's still dark when Aron shakes me awake. "We've got work to do, Halt, and only two weeks to do it. If you get up now, we don't need to waste any daylight with chores."

"I'm awake."

"Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. Hurry, Halt. Don't go back to sleep."

I roll out of bed and put on the nondescript clothes Aron gave me. They'll surely blend in better here in Araluen than my royal clothes from Hibernia, though the dark grays and greens are a bit depressing. Somehow I thought the people here would be just as energetic as those in Hibernia, wearing bright colors and festive clothes all the time.

Aron tosses me a small cloth bundle when I walk into the kitchen. "Breakfast," he explains before heading out the door. "Come on."

I follow, curious. Aron is obviously eager to get somewhere. The path is well worn, and the trees begin to thin as we travel. We finally reach the edge of the woods when the sun has just begun to rise, and before us I see a wide expanse of farmland leading up to a village at the base of a castle.

"That's Castle Gorlan, ruled by the Baron Varick. He's a respectable man, but aging and frequently ill. I believe he currently has a bad case of the flu; we'll be seeing his son, Morgarath, who's just a few years older than you, Halt. Please be respectful, because he has a nasty temper, and almost anything can make him snap."

On our way to the castle, Aron doesn't talk. He nods at the few people who don't try to avoid his notice, and ignores those who do. While we could hear them from the edge of the woods, laughing and carrying on conversations, now the farmers are silent. I'll have to remember to ask him about that when we're off the streets, where he obviously doesn't want to talk.

Walking behind him for so long, it's impossible not to notice Aron's strange cloak. It seems to be at times easily visible, but disappearing into our surroundings at others. It's another thing I have to ask him about.

The guards at the town gate admit us without any hassle; apparently, they know Aron by sight. The people in town are friendlier, too, and Aron stops to haggle with one vendor. When he's done, we have a steaming plate of sausages for breakfast. "Some people don't trust us, but others have learned that our money is just as good as anyone else's," he tells me with a smile.

"Why are we here, Aron?"

"I have to check on the Baron every so often, so I may as well do it today and formally present you as my apprentice at the same time. I hate ceremonies, but that's most likely what we'll have to endure, especially if Morgarath is the one to greet us."

Aron is proven wrong, though, when the baron himself greets us in his office. "Aron, my friend, so good to see you!"

"I'm glad to see you as well, Baron. I trust you are recovering from your illness?"

"Never been better, Ranger, but enough about me. I see you've brought someone with you."

"Baron Varick, this is Halt, my apprentice."

"But I hadn't heard that you have one until now. How is that possible?"

"He is my apprentice as of late last night. Besides the two of us, you're the only one who knows about it."

The older man's face clears. Obviously, he doesn't enjoy being left out of the loop. "Then his apprenticeship is noted. Is that all?"

"Yes. Thank you for your time, Baron, and we'll see you again soon. Remember the Ranger Gathering is in two weeks' time, and we will be gone for a week."

"How could I forget? I'll be left to run the fief with no help from anyone but my son, the pompous fool. I shall miss you that week, Aron."

"Goodbye, Baron." Aron motions for me to leave, and follows closely behind me. "I'll remind the Battlemaster to help you look after things in my absence."

Finally we're out, and Aron closes the door behind us. "That went well. I'm relieved it was the baron, and not Morgarath, 'the pompous fool' as he put it. We would have had to endure several hours of his questioning to be sure we weren't trying to take advantage of him or his father, then a ceremony to announce to the village that you are my apprentice. Overall, this was much less painful for all involved."

"Are we going back home now?" Funny how that cabin has already become home, and Dun Kilty had never really felt that way.

"Of course not. We need to go see Quinton in Castle Araluen."


	9. Questions

"Who's Quinton?"

"The Ranger Commandant. Declaring you my apprentice to Baron Varick was little more than a formality. It means nothing until Quinton knows. Usually, a Ranger knows ahead of time if he plans to accept someone as an apprentice, and gets approval from Quinton before even asking the apprentice. I'm going about things a bit backwards here, but I think Quinton will agree these are unique circumstances."

One word sticks in my mind. Approval. "But does that mean Quinton might reject me?"

"He has never been known to reject anyone's request for an apprentice, so I doubt he'll start now." Aron grabs my good shoulder to stop me and moves to stand in front of me. "Halt, I am a senior member of the Ranger Corps. Quinton trusts my judgment, and I think you'll be fine. Besides, we won't get there today. We'll stop at a friend's overnight, and arrive by midmorning tomorrow. Come on, now, or we'll be late."

Aron doesn't know anything about me for sure. How can he know I could actually be a Ranger? When I voice my concern, he chuckles. "Halt, I found you almost at Castle Gorlan. If you had traveled for another day, you would have been there. That's at least a week's good ride from Selsey—two or three weeks by foot—not to mention you would have had to find a way across the sea between Hibernia and Araluen. Even to get to a port from Dun Kilty would have taken at least three days without a horse. You could have fled to another kingdom in Hibernia, or even just across the sea to Selsey, but you got to Araluen and kept running. Obviously, when you decide to do something, you do it completely. That's the kind of determination it takes to become a Ranger, and not many people have it."

"But how do you know I'll be a good Ranger?"

"There aren't any bad ones. Besides, you've only been my apprentice a few hours and you've already begun bombarding me with questions."

"Is that bad?"

"No, you're just curious. I've never known an apprentice who wasn't, and they've all become good Rangers.

"But how can you be sure?"

"Would you rather _not_ be my apprentice? Because you seem so certain you wouldn't be good at it that it may not be worth even training you to find out."

"I want to be a Ranger."

"Then what's wrong?"

"I've never been good at anything before," I admit before I can stop myself. Now Aron looks confused, so I might as well explain. "Ferris was better at getting along with people, riding a battle horse, hosting a ball, and sword fighting. He always looked like a prince, but no one really even noticed me."

"Escaping notice is good for a Ranger, Halt. Stay here." He walks into the woods a few steps and vanishes.

"Aron?" I don't want to sound like a panicky little kid, but I have no idea where I am.

"I'm here." He moves, and I can suddenly see him again. He never left. "The basis of our so-called magic is our ability to escape notice. We most certainly do not host balls or anything of the like. Sword fighting is a skill that some may become good at, though Rangers do not waste their time or energy with it."

We walk in silence through the woods. Well, Aron is silent. I make quite a good deal of noise compared to him. How hard can it be to walk without making a sound? I begin noticing where I place my feet, trying to avoid sticks and dry leaves.

"Halt, are you coming?" Aron calls from a clearing several hundred yards ahead. I may be able to walk sort of quietly, but there's no way I'm as silent or as quick as him.

I pick up my pace and start to jog, then wince as my shoulder throbs. Running definitely isn't a good idea. The walk seems to take forever with Aron waiting patiently at the end of the trail.

"There's someone I want you to meet, Halt. Come on." He leads me across a sunny meadow to a cabin, where he shouts, "Theo! Bob!"

Two men come out of the cabin, one significantly older than the other. "Aron! Good to see you again. Here to fetch Gone?"

"That would be great, Theo. And you said a few days ago you have another one available?"

"For the boy?"

"Yes. Halt, this is Theo. He's got something for you."

Theo smiles. "Halt, I'm glad to meet you. But Bob is actually the one who's done all the work with this one, so I think he should take you to meet him." He turns to the younger man standing behind him. "Bob, if Abelard is ready, Halt is the perfect size—maybe even a bit small. Sparks is just as good, though, if you think Abelard needs a bit more time."

Bob takes me out back to a paddock with three horses waiting at the gate. "The gray is Gone, Aron's horse. Sparks is the black and Abelard's the bay. It's lunchtime for them, so I'll be right back with some feed. Get to know Sparks and Abe while I'm gone. One of them is gonna be yours."


	10. Permission

The shaggy little horses are nothing like the battle horses of Dun Kilty. Of course, that means I would much rather ride one of these horses than any of my family's enormous battle horses.

Theo said he thinks Abelard would be perfect for me, so I might as well look at him first. The little horse turns to me and I'm shocked to see that he has one blue eye. Hibernian superstition says a horse with eyes of different colors is a sure omen of trouble. I'm not sure when I even made the decision to be as unlike a Hibernian as I can, but the eye is what draws me to the horse.

Abelard looks at me with one intelligent eye—his brown one—as I walk to his side to mount. He appears as if he's almost daring me to get on. As I put my hands on his back in preparation to leap, I decide I may as well ask his permission. His name is Gallic, which I need to practice anyway, so I'm sure it wouldn't hurt to ask him in his own language.

"Abelard, _permettez moi de vous roulez_?" I feel stupid talking to a horse, but who cares? No one is watching. Besides, he makes the funniest face when I ask him—raising his head and shaking out his mane, then nodding twice—that it's definitely worth it.

I hop onto his back, careful not to jar my shoulder more than is necessary. I've never been allowed to ride bareback or without reins—the battle horses would kill me. Abelard seems to enjoy it.

"Halt, what are you doing?" Aron calls from the house. He's already racing across the meadow to the paddock. "Where's Bob?"

"He went to get feed for the horses. What's wrong?"

"Did he tell you how to ride this horse?" He's finally reached the paddock and slipped under the fence, but he's still nervous.

"No, but it can't be much different from riding any other horse, can it?"

"Halt, he's going to throw you if you don't get off quickly."

"Why?"

"He's a Ranger horse. He's been trained to respond to a certain phrase, and he'll throw you if you don't know it."

"And that would be bad for my shoulder, right?"

"Yes." He pauses, considering something. "Halt, did you say anything to him before you got on?"

"Yes. Why?"

"By Ranger horse standards, he should have thrown you off about three seconds after you got on. I wonder if, by accident, you used his code phrase."

"I just asked him if he would let me ride him."

Bob is back with a bucket of grain. "What exactly did you say?"

" 'Abelard, _permettez moi de vous roulez_?' "

"Well, his phrase is _permettez moi_. I'm surprised he picked it out of a whole sentence, but I guess I should have expected it. He's a smart one, this Abelard."

Aron looks a bit confused. "What is his code phrase?"

"_Permettez moi_." Bob continues to walk over to the feed bin, and Abelard's head follows his movement. I dismount and let him walk over for his food.

"That's Gallic for sure, but I haven't ever been able to understand anything in that language. What does it mean?"

Suddenly I understand the reason for his confusion. "Will you allow me? He gave me a challenging sort of I-dare-you-to-get-on-my-back look before I mounted, so I asked him if I was allowed to ride him. It seemed like it made sense, but I also felt like a complete idiot."

"What made you choose Gallic?"

"His name. Abelard. It's the name of the current Gallican king's younger brother, so I assumed it was a Gallic name."

"Well, since you obviously know your way around horses, we'll finish the trip to Castle Araluen after lunch. I had been allowing this afternoon for you to get to know your horse, but he already seems to like you, so we shouldn't have too much of a problem there. I'll have Bob give you his tack and brushes and we'll be on our way before you know it."

Aron is certainly right. We're traveling within half an hour, and he says we'll be seeing Quinton before sunset.

The journey passes quickly, and I almost continuously feel like we've been going too long and the horses need a break. Even a battle horse can't run this long without resting, and they're the strongest there is. These little horses have an amazing amount of endurance. Almost as if Abelard can hear my thoughts, he tosses his head to agree with me.


	11. Arrangement

"Halt, please try to relax. We'll be at Castle Araluen in little less than an hour."

Of course, that's the reason I can't relax. "What happens if Quinton doesn't approve of me?"

"He will."

"But…"

"Halt, listen to me. Quinton has been my good friend for many years. He also trusts my judgment. If I recommend something, he almost always goes along with it."

"Almost always?"

"He will approve of you."

"But how…"

Aron cuts me off again, holding up his hand to signal complete silence. An arrow is instantly nocked on the massive longbow he's carried all day, though he hasn't bothered to aim or even draw the bow. If someone attacks, it will take him much too long to react and defend us.

"King's Ranger. Show yourself." He's not shouting, but his voice carries so I know anyone hiding could have seen it. There's no reaction to his challenge. "Show yourself or I'll shoot. I see you hiding in the bushes at the base of that giant oak."

A head pops up from the bushes exactly where he must have known someone was hiding, but instead of making threats, he laughs. "Quinton, how long have you been following us?"

"About a quarter hour. I've just gotten back from the Gathering Ground and I have nothing left to do to prepare. No last second practice sessions to set up."

"Different without Crowley under your feet?" Aron looks amused.

"Definitely. But tell me—who is this?"

"This is my young friend Halt. I know it's unheard-of so close to Gathering time, but I've taken him on as my apprentice. There were…unusual circumstances that prevented me from waiting until after the Gathering, but I was hoping we could discuss it over a cup of coffee back at Castle Araluen."

"Certainly. Just let me fetch my horse and we'll be off."

The two men exchange friendly gibes the entire ride back to the castle, obviously glad to see each other again. As we reach the town surrounding the castle, Quinton leads us off towards the woods. "I'd rather we went straight to my cabin. I'm not expected back until tomorrow anyway, and I don't want to be swamped with paperwork yet tonight."

His cabin is surprisingly similar to Aron's, and I find myself wondering whether all Rangers have lodgings like this. Once the horses are bedded down for the night, we head inside for coffee. I've personally never liked the bitter drink, but Aron and Quinton are definitely fond of it. They won't let me refuse it completely and Aron suggests I try mixing some honey in it. The result is much better and actually enjoyable.

"Aron, you had something you wanted to discuss?" Quinton seems interested. "Something that couldn't wait for a letter?"

"I went about things in an unusual order with Halt. I should have requested supplies for him before accepting him as my apprentice. So now I just need your official approval for that."

"You said there were unique circumstances?"

"Very unique." He glances at me. "I think it would be better if he explained the reason for them himself."

"I'm Hibernian. Or at least I have been up until I escaped to Araluen." The story of Ferris's jealousy isn't an easy one to tell, but I get through it because Aron seems to expect me to. He's not going to help me tell my story and Quinton needs to hear all of it.

When I'm finally done, Aron takes over. "I'm not sending him back to Hibernia; he'll be killed. I can't leave him to find work for himself before his arm has healed. There were various other possibilities and good reasons why none of them worked. The only one I found acceptable was to make him my apprentice. He's determined, curious, intelligent, and creative. Under normal circumstances, I would have accepted him after the Gathering anyway."

"We'll come up with a way to make it work. I believe we could assess him for the first time at the Gathering and if he doesn't pass—which I doubt he will with so little time to prepare—we can give him the first assessment again next year. We'll adopt that system for the entire Corps so no one can argue he's getting special treatment as the heir to the throne of Hibernia."

"Can we please not even tell anyone who I am? I'm a runaway from Hibernia; that should be enough to satisfy most people."

"Rangers are more curious than most people," Aron reminds me. "They'll need a reason for you being a runaway."

"My brother tried to kill me and I was scared. I ran to Araluen in a panic."

"That should work. Quinton and I won't give out any more information than that, and you can choose who you want to share more with."

"Congratulations, Aron. You officially have an apprentice. I'll just finish the paperwork and get his supplies first thing tomorrow morning."


	12. Equipment

I'm an apprentice Ranger of Araluen. It still sounds odd, and I can't help wondering whether I dreamed it all. Whether I'll wake up in my bed in Dun Kilty and find it never happened. I roll over with my eyes still closed, wanting to let the dream last a little longer. And I fall on the floor of a barn.

Abelard snorts at me. _What did you do that for?_

"Shut up." Great. Now I'm talking with a horse. But at least I know I'm not dreaming it.

I climb back on the hay bales that were my makeshift bed just as Aron walks in. "Good. You're up. Let's get going. Your training starts today, Halt."

Quinton leads Aron and me from his cabin in the woods to Castle Araluen. It's at least three times the size of the castle at Gorlan and twice the size of Dun Kilty, but it doesn't even seem to faze the two Rangers. The guards let us pass unchallenged, though it could be because they recognize Quinton.

We stop at a nondescript door in a hallway that looks nearly identical to all the others we've seen. Quinton unlocks it, and the room is filled with an odd array of longbows, knives, and several things—presumably weapons like the rest—that I don't recognize.

"Take what you need," Quinton tells Aron. "I'll fetch his cloak and some more clothes."

"Pick a bow. Low draw weight at this end, higher draw in the corner. I'd say start with the third section and see what you think."

There are nine distinctly different sections of bows. I head to the one Aron indicated and choose a bow at random. It feels clumsy once I've taken it out of the case, especially compared to the one I learned to shoot with in Clonmel. I was never very good with aim, but I could shoot the arrows twice as far as Ferris ever could. As I look closer at it, though, I realize it's just thicker than I'm used to.

Sorting through the bows more carefully now, I find a thinner, more delicate bow than the others. It's closer to what I'm used to shooting with, but it's obviously much stronger and more durable than any I've used before.

I show it to Aron, who nods once. "Looks like a good choice. It's a shame you can't test it until your shoulder heals." He hands me a simple quiver, unmarked except for the single oakleaf design stamped into the leather, and a double scabbard holding two unusual knives. "I'll show you how to use them back at my cabin. You get to learn left-handed until you can use that shoulder again."

Quinton walks back into the room and hands me a large sack. "Your clothes. Has Aron told you about the cloak yet?" I shake my head and he continues. "It's standard Ranger issue, just like everything else you're carrying. I'll let him explain the rest to you." He hands me a mottled green and gray cloak and ushers us out the door.

Aron thanks him and gracefully turns down his invitation to lunch, insisting he needs to start my training.

"Would you at least stay for a mug of coffee, then?" Quinton finally asks.

Aron considers for a moment, then shakes his head. "We really must be going, Quinton. Halt has a lot of work to do before the Gathering if he has any intentions of passing his first assessment."

He's right, of course, and Quinton reluctantly lets us go. "He's had an apprentice up until just about a year ago, when Crowley graduated," Aron tells me as we ride away. "There's suddenly much less to do in preparation for the Gathering without an apprentice who thinks he needs last minute practice sessions."

Abelard and Gone practically fly home, stopping for breaks only twice on the way. Even the horses of Dun Kilty, as fit and battle-ready as they are, could never have managed that feat.

We're home by dinner, and I'm slightly more help in preparing it this time. I'm going to learn how to cook because no one expects it of a Hibernian prince. Rangers, on the other hand, seem to be able to do everything for themselves.

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**guess what? the first three people to review get to ask _anything _they want about this story, and i will answer as honestly and completely as i can. so what are you waiting for?**


	13. History

**Sorry it's taken me so long to post this. There's really no excuse. This is the last chapter before Halt actually starts learning to be a Ranger, though, and I promise the next chapter will be up much faster than this one was.**

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"How much do you know about Araluen history?" Aron asks after dinner.

"Barely any. I was only taught the modern history of Araluen as it relates to Hibernia." I sound like I'm quoting a history book.

"Have you ever heard of King Herbert?"

I have to shake my head.

"He united the fifty fiefs nearly one hundred fifty years ago. To maintain the slightly unstable kingdom, he formed the Ranger Corps as an effective intelligence force. A Ranger was stationed in each of the fifty fiefs and reported directly back to the king. This way, he knew if the barons were planning a revolt or anything else that could affect Araluen.

"How were the Rangers so successful at this task? They stayed out of the way, or at least appeared to. When the barons began to believe the Rangers posed no real threat, they talked more openly about rebellion. If it ever became more than just talk, the Rangers were authorized to step in immediately. Some situations were uglier or more sensitive than others, but the kingdom of Araluen was kept intact.

"Over time, the barons were replaced by men who respected the king. At first, Rangers appeared unnecessary, and the Corps was almost ended seventeen times. The intelligence they provided was not appreciated by Herbert's son Kenneth, who believed he had nothing to fear from the barons.

"The Commandant at that time, a little over one hundred years ago, decided to insure the safety of the Corps. As one story goes, he followed Kenneth for weeks, pretending to be the ghost of his father and demanding to know why his Rangers were being threatened. In a panic, the king signed a decree protecting the Rangers and the supposed haunting stopped. Every king since has welcomed the help and dedication of the Ranger Corps."

I'm curious. "How do the Rangers help the king?"

"We help enforce laws. King Raymond doesn't have time to deal with every crime committed, and neither do the barons. Rangers know almost everything going on in a fief, and can deal with any situation that arises—often before the baron even knows about it."

"How?"

"Often, just the knowledge that a Ranger is present tends to make people stop and think about what they're doing. Thanks to people's tendency to exaggerate tales, we are generally seen as invincible black magicians, not worth fighting.

"When we do have to fight, we have several advantages. Our bows mean that few can get close enough to do us any real harm. Our knives can be thrown, or we can fight with them in close quarters. We train until we know the result of every action before we even complete it. And if all else fails, we can simply disappear."

That doesn't make sense. People don't just disappear. Suddenly, though, I remember Aron's demonstration in the forest yesterday. He was within ten feet of me and I had absolutely no clue where he was. If these Rangers are as good at everything else as Aron claims they are—and I have to believe that he would have no reason exaggerate things like this—then I can see why rumors of sorcery have spread as far as Hibernia. Which gives me another thought.

"Why don't the Rangers ever bother to correct the rumors about being sorcerers and black magicians?"

"It's not worth the time. We have more important things to be doing. If criminals realized we were wasting too much time trying to dispel that rumor, they would take advantage of our distraction. And some may even realize that we're not as scary as they think, and our jobs would be ten times harder than they are now. Look over there." He points to a knot in one of the logs that make the cabin's walls.

"I don't see anything."

"Concentrate."

I'm concentrating as hard as I can, when out of nowhere a heavy knife appears in the center of the target. Aron appears not to have moved, but there's no other way that knife could have shown up in the wall.

"Imagine I'm not here—or at least that you don't know I am—and that knife is sticking out of a tree a few inches from your head. You don't know where it came from. Suddenly a Ranger steps out of the trees. You're likely to fall over yourself trying to make sure I'm not going to kill you. That would be scarier—and more likely to get the response we want—than knowing Rangers throw knives accurately because of practice, not black magic."

"And it takes a lot of practice, right?" I know what Aron's going to say.

"Years to perfect the throw, and constant practice to make sure you never lose the perfection. Since you can't draw a bow yet with that arm, you'll start learning to use your knives tomorrow at dawn."


	14. Trees

The saxe knife feels odd in my hand. Not wrong, just...odd. Like it could belong there, but doesn't because I don't know how to use it. It's essentially a short sword, but less awkward to handle. And the quality is much higher than any sword I've ever seen.

"Pick a tree and throw at it," Aron tells me. "Let's see how close you can get before I teach you how to use that knife."

I pick a tree about a hundred feet away, trying to guess how hard I'll have to throw to get the heavy saxe there. I can tell as soon as I let go of the knife that it's a bad throw. It goes about the right distance, but my aim was off. My knife thuds into the base of a tree about ten feet to the right of the one I was trying to hit.

"Pretty good, though I think you were over-compensating for the fact that you're using your left arm. Just throw. Don't bother to think about which arm you're using—your aim should be the same either way. Go get the knife and try again."

I spend about an hour practicing with the saxe knife—with frequent interruptions from Aron, pointing out something I'm doing wrong—and I finally feel like I'm starting to understand it when he stops me. "That's enough with the saxe for now. Try the throwing knife."

This knife is smaller and easier to control with my left hand before I even throw it. I pick a tree, the same one I've been trying to hit all morning. By pure luck, I manage to hit one of its branches fairly close to the trunk. Aron can probably tell it's not where I was aiming, but I don't really care. I finally hit the stupid tree.

I throw a few more times, but my knife never seems to go where I want it to. As I draw my arm back to throw again, Aron motions for me to stop. He's suddenly alert, scanning the forest for something, so I try to do the same.

There's nothing there. Absolutely nothing. But Aron is still searching.

He turns away. When he looks back, he's smiling. "Fell for that one, didn't you? Keep practicing. And don't get distracted by whatever I'm doing."

As I throw the knife again, I see him out of the corner of my eye—watching the forest, not me. He still seems to be in a good enough mood, but not completely at ease. There really was something in the forest, and he can't place exactly what it might have been.

"You've been practicing hard. Go fetch yourself a drink, Halt." He laughs—no, he forces a laugh, because it never reaches his eyes. Something is wrong, and he doesn't want me here to deal with it.

I've seen the way Aron can use his knives, and I can't help but wonder what could be making him act like this. There's obviously a threat in the woods, and it must be something important to scare him this way.

No one would dare threaten a King's Ranger, or at least no one who knows how capable they are or handling their weapons. I wouldn't want to make Aron angry, and I'm not an enemy. This threat is either incredibly skilled, and believes himself to be superior or at least equal to the Rangers, or doesn't know anything about them.

I suddenly stop. There is one force that could equal the Rangers.

I push the idea away. They would have no reason to be here.

Aron said to get a drink, meaning I have to go all the way back to the cabin, or even further to the river. I can walk to the cabin in ten minutes, and I'll take another ten to get back. Aron is getting rid of me for twenty minutes, which suggests that he's afraid of them himself. So it must be someone that he at least respects for their abilities.

I'm running now, but I don't think this is the direction he wants me to go.

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_to anyone still reading this, thank you!_

_the story is mostly planned out now, but i want to make sure i'm not forgetting anything important. anyone who reviews this chapter can ask ONE question about anything and i'll answer it. the more complicated it is, the more i have to think, and the more it will help with the story. to save myself the trouble of answering the same question 57 times, yes. halt and pauline are going to meet soon. very soon._

_to anyone who asks a question, thanks for your help!_

_Arya the Forensic One and runningcrazy4EVER, i still owe each of you a question. you can ask one or both now, or save them for later. your choice. :)_


	15. Eavesdropper

In the clearing, Aron is standing with his bow at his side—he doesn't appear threatening, but I know that could change in an instant. He obviously knows I'm behind the tree, the same stupid tree I couldn't hit earlier, and yet he hasn't bothered to call me out. I could be imagining it, but it seems like he doesn't want to believe I'm here.

A twig cracks to his left, and an arrow is in the air before I've even had time to blink. As I trace its path until it thuds into a tree, I see a flash of purple. "One more step and it's your heart instead, Fausto. You know I never miss. You have a scar to prove it."

"Aron, you remember me. How touching. It's nice to see I made an impression on you."

"Who are you hunting this time, _Signor_?" Aron's voice is filled with a menace I've only heard from Ferris, that last day in Hibernia. It's terrifying, and I have no idea why Fausto doesn't just leave when he's so obviously not welcome here.

"A little brat from Hibernia. He stole from the royal family, and the crown prince Ferris wants him punished." His voice suddenly changes tone, from completely bored to oily and manipulating. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about a Hibernian fugitive, would you, _mio vecchio amico_?"

"Get out of this country. Your kind is not welcome here, Fausto. You should not have come, and you should not have brought Severo." It's silent for a moment. "I know he came with you, Fausto. He's not quite halfway around the clearing from you, but he's still here."

"We will leave, _amico_. We will achieve our goal, and then we will leave. But we will not leave until the prey is dead, and nothing will dissuade us."

"You are mistaken in thinking he is here, Fausto. Rangers keep ourselves informed of fugitives hiding in the area, and I can tell you that the thief is nowhere in Gorlan Fief, or I would know of him. Go now, or I'll shoot you both."

The two purple-clad figures suddenly appear from behind trees and brambles, and vanish into the forest. "Halt, come out from behind that tree. I know you heard all that, and so do they. Genovesans aren't stupid."

"It's really them, Aron?"

"I'm afraid so. And Ferris hired two of the best in the business. He wouldn't have done that for a simple thief."

"He wants to be king," I tell Aron again. "I'm a threat. He would hire the best to ensure his safety and power, and that's what he gets if I'm dead. I'm the prey."

"They're not infallible, Halt, just difficult to defeat. There were once three in their group, but Terzo died in an assassination attempt."

"How do you know so much about them, Aron? Why were they so friendly to you?"

"They saw the damage my arrows could do when they failed to kill Quinton. Quinton shot Terzo in the left calf, and Fausto was carrying him out. I shot to kill Fausto, the clear leader, and capture Terzo, but Fausto fell just as I loosed the arrow. It grazed his arm and killed Terzo instantly.

"Fausto and Severo got away. We would have gone after them, but Quinton specifically ordered that no one risk their lives since they had been driven off. Raymond had just become king, and the barons were a little uncooperative. He didn't want to allow them any room to undermine Araluen's new king."

"So why didn't you kill them today?"

"They were standing on either side of me. The second I shot at one of them, the other would have put a crossbow bolt through my heart before I could do anything to stop him. They knew it, too, but they also knew I wanted them dead just enough that I might have decided to risk it."

"Would you have risked it?" I'm insanely curious.

"A few days ago, yes. Now I have an apprentice, and I would cause trouble for the Corps if I left you for them to train."

"You would have risked your life—against Quinton's orders, since I'm assuming that command was never terminated—to shoot assassins that were after _me_, when handing me over would get rid of them without putting you in any danger?" I've known Aron for a week. I knew my family and the other Hibernian nobles for seventeen years and none of them would have done that for me. "I don't believe you."

"Halt, I'm risking my life right now. I know where their Hibernian fugitive is, and I didn't turn you over to them. If they ever find out, they'll try to kill me. Why not turn you over to them? It would be easier, but it would be wrong. They would kill you, and I would have broken my vow to protect the people of Araluen. Overall, this is the safest course for both of us."

"I'm not Araluen. You wouldn't be breaking any vows."

"Halt, would you have preferred it if I _had_ turned you over to them?" He doesn't even wait for an answer, although I'm shaking my head. "I thought not. So stop looking for problems and just accept that maybe there are some people in the world who _don't_ want you dead." He's getting frustrated with me, and I know it, but I just don't understand why he cares. He's not getting anything out of it, and I'm making everything more difficult for him.

"Halt, get out your knives."

"Why?"

"Because I said so. And because the Genovesans are expert knife fighters, so you should have at least a little experience with it before you meet them. Although if they find you, I wouldn't recommend fighting."

"What should I do?"

"Run away as fast as you can and hope they don't catch you."

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_same rules as before. ask whatever, i'll answer._


	16. Crowley

The Gathering has come faster than I expected. I still can't throw a knife and expect it to hit the tree I'm aiming at, and I haven't even tried firing a bow yet. I can follow a definite trail through the woods, but I'm completely lost the second it does something unexpected. I sound like an enraged boar crashing through the woods, even when I'm trying to be quiet. And Aron expects me to show the other Rangers what I've learned.

How do I explain that it's not his fault? That I barely even trained outside the cabin because he thought—probably correctly—the Genovesans were too much of a threat to allow me outside? I don't. I can't. I'll trust Aron to convince the other Rangers that he's not a failure. I just have to convince them that I'm not, either, and that I deserve to keep training. No pressure at the Gathering, then.

When we reach the Gathering Grounds, Aron leaves me to pitch our tents as he meets Quinton. A young man, probably no older than twenty, stops to help me.

"You must be Halt—Aron's new apprentice."

I nod, not wanting to talk to him.

He seems oblivious. "We've all heard a lot about you. Quinton even agreed to change the training procedures for you. Something about special circumstances?"

He needs an answer. I nod again, knowing it won't satisfy him.

"So naturally, as Rangers, we're all curious. What _are_ those special circumstances, Halt?"

If this man really is a Ranger, I can't lie to him. But there's no way I'm explaining about Ferris to some random stranger, no matter how friendly he is. "A few weeks ago, I lived in Hibernia. My younger brother was jealous because I was going to get a better inheritance than him. He tried to kill me a few times, and I ran away to Araluen." It's all technically true, but still hiding the most important details. If I'm lucky, it will satisfy this man.

"Doesn't it seem a little extreme? Running to another country because your brother is jealous?"

I shake my head. "You don't know him. Running to another country was my _only_ option." And even now, in Araluen, I'm not safe from his assassins.

"You're not just some peasant, are you, Halt? Your family has at least some influence in Hibernia. Otherwise you wouldn't still be looking over your shoulder as if you expect him to find you even here."

I avoid his real question—who are you what do you want with us—and instead answer the one he actually asked. "My family has money, and we're not peasants. But we're not very powerful in Hibernia, either." We—they—may rule Clonmel, but it's only a small part of Hibernia. The other five kings rule the rest of the country, so technically, I'm telling the truth.

"Let me know if you need anything during the Gathering, Halt. If you can't find me somewhere nearby, ask one of the other Rangers. They all know me, since I caused so much trouble at the Gatherings while I was an apprentice. Even now, I know they're all watching me, waiting for me to do something...mischievous." He smiles. "I'm Crowley, by the way."

* * *

_as always, please read and review._

_yes, i know it's short. the next one is longer, i promise._


	17. Puzzles

I've discovered that Rangers love puzzles. Any situation that presents a challenge instantly draws their interest and attention. They love to solve these puzzles, but given a choice, they would rather set an impossible puzzle for someone else. Crowley in particular seems to enjoy this.

"Skandians are sighted from a small village on a cliff along the coast. The nearest town is almost half a day away, and they will have disappeared with the village's treasures by the time you can reach it and return with help. The shallow harbor is empty. How can you best protect the villagers and their treasures?" he asks me the first morning of the Gathering.

I've learned by now these puzzles seem to have no right answer, only a best answer.

"Skandians' ships are—I'm not sure of the word, but they're not very shallow-bottomed," I tell him. "If the harbor really is shallow, they'll have to row in. It could buy a little time, but probably not much." I hesitate for a moment before asking, "Where is the village, exactly?"

"It doesn't really matter," Crowley says. "Think it over for a little while, and try giving me an answer later tonight."

Aron suddenly appears at our little campsite, startling me. "Halt, I'd like for you to get in a little training with the bow. I won't let you overdo it and hurt your shoulder any more, but it would be nice if you have some idea of your practical limits for the assessment tomorrow."

Uneasily, I take the longbow from my tent and follow Aron into the woods. Crowley stays behind, excusing himself for scouting duty, and I'm glad to see him go. I want as few people as possible to see my ineptitude with this weapon.

When we've traveled a good distance into the woods, Aron points out the targets in front of us. They're between fifty and a hundred meters away. I've never tried to hit targets so small before; the ones they set up in Dun Kilty were at least the height of a man, but these are no bigger than a shield, mounted at chest height.

"Draw and shoot," Aron orders, handing me a loaded quiver. I've seen how fast he can move, but I take my time, sighting carefully down the shaft. I hold my breath as I release, anticipating the pain of the string on my arm, yet ignoring it. The arrow sticks in the target, less than half a meter from the center. I finally allow myself to wince in pain from the string, but Aron hands me another arrow and orders me to hit a different target.

After less than half an hour, my shoulder still feels fine, but my arm hurts too much to continue. The string has slapped it with every release, and I know instinctively I'll have a bruise for a few days. "Aron, how do you put up with this?" I finally ask, pointing to the welts forming on my forearm. "Do you ever get used to it?"

"No, we never get used to it," Aron answers solemnly. "We wear protective leather on our arms. I was wondering how long it would take for you to ask about that." He hands me a leather brace and helps me strap it to my arm. It fits in exactly the spot that the bowstring has been abusing for the past half hour. "Try again," he commands.

This shot is easier because I'm not anticipating pain as I draw. My accuracy is acceptable, in my opinion, but I'm nowhere near fast enough. When I happen to hit close enough to the center of the target to consider it a bullseye, though, Aron just orders me, "Shoot again. Different target," exactly as he has every time before this.

"Why?" I ask as I follow his directions. "I got it right. You know I can shoot."

"We have an old saying," Aron tells me. "An ordinary archer practices until he gets it right. A Ranger practices until he never gets it wrong."

"And that's a lot of practice, right?" I ask, knowing the answer.

Aron smiles. "I'm still practicing."

I've been shooting for hours when he finally calls an end to our lesson. "Older apprentices are starting their night evaluations soon. We don't want to be stuck out here when they start shooting, although hopefully their training would allow them to notice us if we weren't hiding. Either way, I'd rather not risk it. Let's go get some coffee."

Crowley is waiting for us by the fire. "Have you thought any further about my challenge, Halt?" he asks almost instantly.

"I've thought about it," I tell him. "But first you need to answer a few questions for me."

"You have all the information you need," he tries to insist.

Aron cuts him off. "Crowley, answer the boy's questions. He doesn't ask things for no reason. If he thinks he needs to ask questions, he doesn't yet have all the information he needs. I guarantee it."

Crowley nods at him. "All right, Halt, what do you want to know?"

I know exactly what I need to ask; I count each question on my fingers. "How far away is the ship?"

"About two hours."

"I need a distance," I inform him.

"However far a Skandian ship can travel in two hours," he replies.

I huff, but choose to ignore it. "How far away will the ship be when they have to anchor it?"

"Not far, only about three hundred meters."

"How far can a Ranger shoot?"

"About two hundred meters. Perhaps two hundred and fifty on a good day. The ship is out of range."

"And I'm on a cliff in the village, right?"

He nods. "A high cliff."

I see the solution as clear as day. "Each time they let out a rowboat, shoot it with a flaming arrow. It effectively traps them on board the ship while ensuring they can leave."

"The ship is out of range, though."

"No," I correct him. "It's out of range if I was standing on the shore. I'm on, as you said, a high cliff, which adds distance to my arrows."

Crowley looks at me stunned, then gets up and leaves the fire we've been sitting around.

"Is he mad at me?" I ask Aron, confused.

Aron just laughs. "Halt, you're the only one who's thought through the fact that their ship needs to remain intact if you want them to leave. Crowley's just going to tell Quinton that you're the first to solve this year's impossible challenge."

* * *

_I'm ashamed to say I don't even know how long this has been on hiatus. I'm so sorry if you've been keeping up with it (or rather, attempting to, since my updates are so sporadic). If you want to yell at me for it, I'll completely understand and I'll deal with it. I'll try to update sooner next time._


	18. Assessment

Aron shakes me awake at an ungodly hour the next morning. It's still dark, nearly two hours before I would wake up naturally. "You really could use more practice shooting before your evaluation with the bow," he informs me as I get dressed quickly. "You're scheduled to start immediately after breakfast, so this was the best I could think of."

I nod and follow him out to the practice range, making sure to grab everything I'll need: bow, quiver, arrows, and arm guard. I run through the checklist again in my head, just to make sure.

"Just a warning, Halt," Aron says as we near the range. "I'm going to give you far too much information over the next two hours. It's all vital for your assessment. Remember what you can; you won't be expelled from the Corps for trying your best. You'll most likely return next year as a first year apprentice, and you'll be in a much better position to deal with all this."

He must know how worried I am that I'll fail.

"On the off chance that you pass, I'll be very proud of you. I'm not expecting it with only a few hours of bow practice, but you have shot before, so you're not completely inept. It's possible, but highly unlikely."

After an hour, my shoulder is feeling fatigued. I know I should say something, but I'm getting better. I want to keep getting better, because Aron is actually getting excited by my progress. After two more arrows, he suggests I take a break. I shoot one more, and he gets frustrated. "Halt, I order you to put your bow on the ground this second."

Startled, I obey him. "What's wrong?"

"When I tell you to do something, you do it the first time you are asked. Do not make me order you to do something again, or I swear you will regret it."

"Yes, Aron," I agree. "But why do I need to stop shooting?"

"After those last few arrows, you were compromising your hold on the bow. It was effective for a few shots, but would have hurt your shoulder far worse if I hadn't stopped you. Now tell me, was it getting sore?"

"Yes," I admitted sullenly.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" he shouts angrily.

"It's not like this is the first time Ferris has beat me up. He could never know how bad it was, or I wouldn't have survived. So I continued acting normal: riding, shooting, and the like. I had to keep up the charade, or he would have killed me outright."

"No one ever told you it's bad to work an injured shoulder too far?"

"They told me. I didn't listen."

Aron lets out a loud breath and looks to the treetops. "Well, now you're listening. It's bad to shoot if it hurts."

"What if it's an emergency?" I ask him.

"It's bad to practice shooting if it hurts," he amends. "It's also bad to ask questions to cover every situation. Use your best judgment, but don't try to push too far unless you have to."

"What about the assessment today?"

"What did I just tell you about using your best judgment?" he asks, exasperated. "If you take a break now, will that be pushing too far?"

"No?"

"No, you don't think so, or no, you know it won't be too much?"

"I can do it," I tell him more firmly.

"Good," he says. "I thought as much. Now go get cleaned up for breakfast and try not to use your right arm until your assessment. In fact, maybe you should put it in a sling."

It will be embarrassing to wear a sling, but there's no way I'm going against Aron's advice at the moment. He's still furious about that last arrow, even if he thinks he won't let me know that. Besides, he promised I'd regret not doing what I'm told the next time. I don't really want to see what that entails while we're at the Gathering, but there might not be any harm in pushing him back at the cabin. Just to see what he does, of course.

At breakfast, I'm not especially hungry, though Aron suggests that I eat and have a cup of coffee. I do both, though neither is very enjoyable.

He sends me off with a younger Ranger named Wystan, and I start my assessment along with the other two first year apprentices. It's not nearly as embarrassing as I expected. I hit every target and pick up some speed as I shoot. I'm not nearly as fast or as accurate as Aron, but I'm at least adequate. To my surprise, my skill almost matches that of Cadoc and Roland.

After the assessment, the three of us are left alone for a while. We're meant to relax away from the chaos of the camp, but Cadoc and Roland take the opportunity to corner me.

"So, Halt," Cadoc says. "What's all this nonsense about you being a runaway Hibernian?"

"It's true," I tell them, aware of my accent.

"How much of it is true?" Roland questions.

I sigh. I might as well tell them the abridged version I told Crowley. "My brother was jealous that I would get a better inheritance than him, so he tried to kill me and make it look like an accident. I left."

"We need more details than that," Cadoc protests.

I remember my mindset when Father questioned me about my fights with Ferris: giving enough information without really giving any. It doesn't take much effort to slip back into it. "We really didn't have enough to split evenly, as certain things couldn't be divided. I was older. My inheritance would be more respectable. My brother was jealous and attacked me. My shoulder still isn't back to normal after almost a month."

"And you're shooting with it?" Roland questions.

"Yes."

"This was less that a month ago?"

"About a month, yes."

Both boys look at me, stunned. "And you can shoot like us?" Roland finally asks.

"I do have prior experience with a bow," I inform them icily. I'm done with their ridiculous questions. I'm older than either of them, and really don't care to pass my time with children. "Now if you don't mind, I'm going to take advantage of our chance to relax. They wouldn't give it to us if it was unnecessary." I lean contentedly against a tree and close my eyes. After waking up two hours early, rest seems like the most wonderful thing in the world.

I don't allow myself to fall asleep; there's too much risk involved if the Genovesans are still tracking me. I'm aware when the boys fall asleep, and I'm aware of light footsteps around us shortly thereafter. My dagger is in my hand under my cloak, and I know the precise location of the sneak. The only things stopping me from acting are my abysmal throwing skills and the knowledge that it could be a Ranger.

* * *

_I could keep going, but this is getting a bit longer than any other chapters. A break here also means I might update faster._

_Speaking of updates, this is my second today after this story was on a who-knows-how-long hiatus. I must REALLY love you guys._

_Reviews are always great, and you're still more than welcome to ask all the questions you want. I'm not going to limit it to the first three reviewers this time. There are still some people who I owe questions to: check my profile to see if you're one of them. If you are, PM me and I'll send you a preview of the next chapter :)_


	19. Ambush

My head is throbbing with concentration, but my breathing stays steady. I'm supposed to be asleep. I feel the intruder walk towards me, then turn off to the right. It's now or never, and I take my chance. Trusting the instincts that tell me exactly where he is, I've sprung to my feet and captured him from behind in less time than it takes for him to take one step. My eyes are still closed, and he's not struggling.

I open my eyes to find a very surprised Crowley with my knife to his throat. Laughing, I let him go.

"I didn't expect that, Halt," he finally manages. "You were all asleep."

"Relaxing," I correct him. "Feigning sleep. I can't sleep out in the open without someone on guard, not with the—" I stop abruptly, realizing I almost admitted that the Genovesans were after me.

He looks at me curiously. "With what, Halt?"

"Sorry, I guess I'm just tired."

He nods, letting it go, but not believing me. I respect him for it.

"You let them fall asleep?" he asks, gesturing to Cadoc and Roland.

"Why not?" I ask. "I was on guard duty, after all."

He sees my point and smiles. "Very true. You know, I was quite disappointed in your ability to keep a satisfactory watch until you ambushed me," he says. "I was going to have to report it to Aron and Quinton; this was actually a part of the assessment." He pauses. "Did those two know you were awake?"

"I don't think so. I closed my eyes before them, and they quit talking when I told them off of questioning me so I could relax."

"Ah," he says. "Would you mind feigning sleep again, so I can ambush them properly? And don't stay perfectly collected, either, when you pretend to wake up. Take your cues from them."

I nod and relax against the tree again. It's not hard to know where Crowley is at all times, and I smile to myself when he's behind the boys. In almost no time, he's back to me again. "Sorry, Halt," he breathes as he slips a rope around my ankles and ties a firm knot. "This will create some chaos, though."

He's back to the boys, standing near them. I hear a muffled thump as he kicks one of them, then a groan as he starts to wake up. "Ambush!" Roland shouts. "Cadoc, Halt, wake up!"

I cringe at the volume with which he says my name, announcing to everyone in the vicinity—friends and foes alike—where I am. A moment later, I jump to my feet. It's obviously what Crowley wants, as I trip spectacularly and land on my face with a grunt. To my left, Cadoc is swearing up a storm at our predicament. Roland is sitting with a grimace, obviously unsure of what to do.

I'm to take my cues from them, so I swear and roll over. I sit up awkwardly to untie my feet, but quickly give up and pull my saxe from my belt. Cutting it is much faster than figuring out Crowley's complicated knot.

Cadoc is still swearing, and Roland is still silent. I catch a glimpse of Crowley in the undergrowth and point to myself. He hesitates a moment, then nods.

"Alright, guys," I say. "We need to think. Cadoc, shut up unless you have something useful to contribute."

"We could shoot," Roland says.

"Good. Where's the ambusher?" I ask, playing dumb. Their faces fall. They don't know. "What else can we do?" I ask.

"Call for help?"

"And let any of his friends know we're here? Not likely," I argue.

"Run for help?"

"Do you think either of you can make it?" I ask them.

"No, but you can," Cadoc points out. "You're probably a good runner, seeing as you ran all the way here from Hibernia."

"I didn't run," I point out.

"Then you sneaked. Halt, you're our best chance. You have to get help," Roland pleads.

"All right," I agree. "You two cover me while I run."

They nod furiously as I take off toward the Rangers' camp.

Aron is the first to see me when I arrive. "What are you doing here, Halt? I thought you had an assessment."

"Crowley is ambushing Cadoc and Roland. He asked me to play along since I wasn't asleep and caught him the first time he tried. Their strategy was to send me for help. I'm playing along."

Aron grimaces. "Let me go get Quinton, then we'll get them out of this predicament."

"Why do we need Quinton?"

"So he can see their reaction," Aron explains.

In no time, we're riding back to the practice range with Crowley, Cadoc, and Roland's horses in tow. They hear us and start shouting out their location, supposedly making themselves easier to find. "Have they been making this much ruckus the whole time?" Quinton asks.

"Yes. Roland shouted that we were being ambushed to alert Cadoc and me, and Cadoc spent a good five minutes swearing at the top of his voice until we got him calmed down."

Quinton shakes his head, disappointed.

"You forget Crowley and Halt are oddities, Quinton," Aron reminds him.

Quinton agrees resignedly. "Let's get this mess sorted out." He whistles a four note pattern.

Crowley whistles back almost instantly, three descending notes followed by the top one again.

Quinton and Aron stride casually into the practice range, where Cadoc and Roland believe themselves to be trapped. I follow. At the same time, Crowley enters from the other side. The boys are over-excited to see us. "Did you get them?" they ask the instant we're visible.

Crowley shakes his head sadly. "You were never in any danger. I was sneaking around, giving you a taste of a real ambush."

Their shoulders droop at the knowledge, but Quinton works to comfort them. "Almost everyone has the same reaction the first time they're ambushed. We've learned it's best to let it happen in a controlled environment, so you're not in any danger if you panic."

They keep talking, and I lose focus. Suddenly I hear a twig snap behind us. It's not much, but somehow it sets me on edge. "Aron," I say quietly. He leaves the discussion of ambush reactions to listen to me. "They were shouting my name for the whole forest to hear. I can't help but wonder who might have been listening…"

He gets my point immediately. "We're staying here, with Quinton and Crowley. I'd rather have the two of them at my back than everyone else back at the camp."

* * *

**_For whatever reason, I really love writing this story right now. Let me know what you think, please :)_**

**_And for anyone convinced it shouldn't have been Crowley ambushing them, I'm sorry. I just couldn't resist taking an opportunity to show you why, despite his lack of training, Halt could actually be more prepared to be a Ranger than you might first think...without putting him in a truly impossible situation that you would all hate me for letting him resolve single-handedly._**


	20. Capture

"Quinton!" Aron says, interrupting whatever Cadoc was asking. "The environment we're in may no longer be controlled, and Halt believes an ambush is coming."

Quinton grimaces. "Best to wait it out here then, right? You know half of the fools back at camp would just make it more difficult to sort out."

I'm stunned at how little confidence they have in their fellow Rangers. "Aron, why—"

"Not now, Halt," he interrupts. "I'll answer your questions later, but right now we're preparing to be ambushed by your Genovesan friends."

Crowley's head snaps up. "Why—"

"Halt's family is powerful," Aron explains quickly.

Cadoc and Roland just gape at me.

"Quinton. Crowley," Aron says. "There's something else you should know: these aren't just any Genovesans. It's Fausto Poselli and Severo Bedente."

Quinton curses under his breath. "How do you know this, Aron?"

"They ambushed us in Gorlan. I sent them away with several threats, and I'm not entirely sure whether they're following my apprentice—don't say his name now—with the belief that he's their prey, or eliminating me first, then searching for him."

"Either way," Crowley says, "We need to stop them."

"Aron, we'll discuss your secrecy on that topic later," Quinton threatens. "Genovesans possibly on your tail, and you don't even think to warn me? We'll need a new Gathering ground for next year."

They're all on high alert because I heard a twig snap. I can't even be sure the Genovesans are here. When I voice my concerns, Crowley is the only one to answer. "Learn to trust your instincts, Halt. If your instincts say something isn't right, it probably isn't. Quinton and Aron wouldn't react this way if their concern wasn't genuine, so they must feel something is off. I can't place my finger on it, but I certainly have to agree with them."

After a few minutes, Roland interrupts the silence. "Are we really in danger now?" he asks seriously. Cadoc hangs on his every word. Since the other Rangers are occupied with keeping us safe, I nod and motion for him to be quiet.

"My brother hired two very good assassins to kill me," I explain to the boys in barely a whisper. "We think they may have tracked me here."

Nearly an hour later, Crowley lets an arrow fly without warning. It's met by a grunt of pain, and all three Rangers instinctively duck and sidestep. A crossbow bolt smacks into a tree, And Quinton and Aron send a pair of arrows after its shooter. I hear both hit, and now there are two men groaning in pain in the woods.

Quinton relaxes. "Aron, would you and...your apprentice...care to bring the man we shot to the clearing? Crowley and I will collect the other."

I feel completely useless as Aron and I walk out to find his target. I sat in the clearing while the three of them risked their lives to shoot the Genovesans. When we find him, Aron lets out a bitter laugh. "Fausto Poselli," he says menacingly. "Mio vecchio amico, how are you?"

Fausto is effectively hobbled with one arrow through his right calf and another through his left knee. When Aron addresses him, he lets out a stream of curses and insults in his own language. Finally, he's tired himself out and looks at Aron. "Kill me, amico," he says simply.

Aron ignores his pleas and puts him in thumb cuffs. I still don't understood how they work, but they obviously do. "Quinton will be glad to see we've caught you. His old apprentice—you remember Crowley, don't you—shot Severo."

He swears a bit more. "Who's your apprentice, Aron? I don't believe we've been introduced."

"I don't believe you have," Aron concedes, but he never moves to change that. Instead, he asks me to help him lift Fausto, and we carry him between us back to the clearing. Quinton and Crowley have already arrived, and the boys are gone. Quinton sees my concern and tells me that he's already sent them back to camp with orders to send a wagon for our prisoners.

It's obvious that we're not mentioning why they came after me, and I feel a bit guilty that Crowley doesn't know why we were ambushed. But I won't tell him, because I'm not a prince anymore. I left that life behind when I became a Ranger.

Quinton and Crowley ride beside the wagon with the Ranger who brought it, but Aron holds me back. "I believe you had a question while we were in the middle of all that, Halt. If I'm right—and I'm rarely wrong—I don't think it can be answered in the presence of other Rangers.

"Why didn't we fight the ambush back at camp, where there were more Rangers who could have helped?"

Aron smiles. "So I was right. That's a complicated issue. First, you have to understand that half the Corps was never apprenticed correctly. They were lazy and bought their way in, and would be unable to handle real conflict. The Genovesans would have picked up on that in an instant and used it to their benefit. Second—as a result of that—I'm not entirely sure which Rangers I can trust, and I don't want word of this to reach the wrong ears. Quinton will write up a report for King Oswald and hand-deliver it, but there are some who would use it in an attempt to undermine our authority."

"Why did Quinton let them in, then? If they're not fit to be Rangers?" I ask, confused.

"He was ordered to. Oswald has become influenced by others in his old age; it won't be long until someone else is made king, but he has allowed himself to be convinced that his own son would kill him now to usurp power. The same man who convinced him of Duncan's treachery is the one who persuaded him to let untrained men become Rangers for the right price."

"Who is it?"

Aron responds with one word. "Morgarath."

* * *

_There are a few things I need to mention:_

_1) I've now received several reviews asking if I was aware of Halt and Crowley's mentor, Pritchard. Yes, I am. However, I started writing this before Flanagan published his Lost Stories. There is a plan for this story that would be completely ruined if Halt suddenly switched mentors, though I'll admit I did kill off Aron at one point to try to make it work. I like this better. It is canon through the novels and only deviates if you've read the short story about Halt and Crowley. This deviation was the reason for my more than year-long hiatus of this story, and I have chosen to ignore it. If you don't like it, please feel free to stop reading._

_2) Yes, I did take the example of that short story in messing up the Ranger Corps more thoroughly. After all, Halt and Crowley will have to reform the Corps some time soon, and they might as well do it more completely than I had originally planned. It doesn't change much else in the plot, so I can do that._

_3) Thim, I wish you'd signed in to review. PM me if your offer still stands, because I'd love to discuss it :)_


	21. Campfire

I don't like Morgarath; he reminds me too much of Ferris. Not next in line for power, but scheming to give himself an advantage over the one who is. It's not fair to him, I try to convince myself. I've never met the man, and I shouldn't judge him until I know him.

I'm quiet for the rest of the Gathering, completing my tasks to the best of my ability. Even Crowley can't draw me into conversation. I've encountered reality yet again, and I only now realize that I had been making a futile attempt to run from it.

My gloomy thoughts persist into the last night of the Gathering, when Aron finally takes me aside and insists that I have fun for one night. With the Genovesans gone, he says, it's the least I deserve.

Quinton eventually joins me at our campfire, where I'm doing my best not to show my discomfort with large groups of people. He dumps something in my lap: a bronze oakleaf on a chain. "In a normal year, you would have been below the necessary standards to pass. But I need all the trained Rangers I can get," he says gloomily. "The bronze oakleaf, as you'll see, currently holds more weight within the Corps than a lone silver one. I'm marking you as more valuable than half the Rangers here, Halt, because you deserve it. And sadly, because it's true."

I nod my thanks and appreciation, yet I still don't feel quite up to talking.

Quinton understands anyway. "You're welcome, Halt. Let me know if you need anything, alright?"

Again, I just nod, this time in agreement. Quinton leaves me to my thoughts and joins some of the older Rangers around the central campfire.

Now that I've learned of the sorry state the Corps is in, I find it quite simple to distinguish the trained Rangers from those whose fathers bought their silver oakleaves. The main difference, gathered around a celebratory campfire, is the choice of drink. Of all the old Rangers, not a single one drinks anything other than coffee. The few younger Rangers that they've trained do the same. The useless ones favor drinks that make them grow rowdy—ale, whiskey, and the like.

Aron finally sits beside me. "Halt, if you really don't want to talk, I understand. But I would like to know what has you so frustrated, if you'd be willing to share it with me."

The unassuming nature of this question, especially coming from my mentor, ensures that I feel obligated to answer. "I left Hibernia when things got...politically interesting," I say carefully, in case others are listening. "It seems like Araluen is falling into a similar situation, and again I'm helpless to stop it. I've never done anything but run from problems, and I can't help but worry that I'll do it again and disappoint everyone here. Gods know I caused enough trouble that way back at D—in Hibernia."

"Halt, I know that you don't like to fail. If you see running from Araluen as failure, I'd bet anything you won't seriously consider it."

My lips twist into a faint smile at Aron's confidence in me. "Thanks," I say quietly.

* * *

_Quite a short chapter here, and I'm sorry. I didn't do any of the work I hoped to get done over vacation, and this week has been insanely crazy. So at least you've got a chapter, right? I promise the next one will be longer._

_Review please. It encourages me to write faster :)_


	22. Letter

The next week is anticlimactic, in a good sort of way. Aron begins helping me to fine-tune my shooting and knife-throwing, so that I can actually reach Ranger standards of accuracy. Well, first-year apprentice accuracy, at least. He is still far more skilled than me. Quinton sends us updates on the Genovesans' refusal to cooperate nearly every day. He had expected it, and Aron had warned me it would be at least a fortnight before there was any news, but I was glad of the information anyway.

There is no change until the report sent eleven days after the close of the Gathering. It is longer than the standard correspondence from Quinton, and that could only mean one of two things as fas as I am concerned. Aron reads it first, before passing it to me.

_To Ranger Aron of the Old Corps and his Apprentice Halt:_

_Genovesans Fausto Poselli and Severo Bedente have made clear their position. They intend to share no necessary or relevant information without the promise of freedom after they talk. They are being held on charges of attempted murder of Halt, who has the protection of the Old Ranger Corps, and treason against Araluen through the attempted assassination of myself nearly three years ago._

_We have discerned that these two actions were under the orders of different benefactors, and have hereby accepted Halt's explanation of their attempt on his life. This information will not be shared within the Corps, Old or New, per the request of Ranger Aron and his apprentice. I may reveal that the man who commissioned this action will pose no threat to the rest of the Ranger Corps; his interest lies solely in Halt._

_Though we have suspicions as to the identity of the benefactor who paid for my own death, there is no information to confirm it. Personally, and within the closest confidence of the Old Corps, I believe him to be a powerful figure in Araluen, but will not share suspicions without proof. We shall see what comes of it. They are scheduled for trial by King Oswald and his court tomorrow morning and will be condemned to death. It is possible they will be offered a lighter sentence in exchange for the information we seek._

_I hope you are well and training as hard as ever._

_Sincerely,_  
_Ranger Commandant Quinton Atoll of the Old Ranger Corps_

Aron is pacing, frowning. He's thinking about something, and I have no way of knowing what's causing this distress. He doesn't appreciate questions in this mood, so I busy myself with the task he assigned—scrubbing his old copper pots until every single one shines in the sunlight.

When the task is done, after much scrubbing and a good deal of mental complaints, Aron wordlessly hands me a bucket. Before this I had my suspicions; now I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that something was oddly out of place. Aron always—without exception—went out of his way to remind me not to waste the water on the trip back, as the stream was dangerously low already. For that to slip his mind…

I run over the letter—the parts that I remember from reading it, anyway—constantly in my head. The Genovesans do not intend to talk without freedom, which they would never receive. They've been paid by multiple patrons, but that is only to be expected of mercenaries. Quinton still doesn't know who wanted him dead, but has his suspicions.

I freeze, stock-still in the woods. I have suspicions, too, I realize. Could they be the same as Aron's, or do I not correctly recognize the signs of a nobleman searching for power?

It will be someone careful and calculating. Someone slated to have some power, but not as much as he wants. He will be immensely suspicious of newcomers, and quietly cautious of those he appears to trust. He will be in a position where power could come quickly to someone else if he himself doesn't have the correct support.

Ferris wasn't careful enough; his plans were rushed when our father began discussing succession with me. I learned how to lead while he did nothing. He needed our father's full support if he intended to take my place—something that would only happen if I could not be king. If I was dead.

What if the same struggle was happening here, on a far larger scale? Aron's words from the Gathering hit me like a weight in my stomach: _The same man who convinced Oswald of Duncan's treachery is the one who persuaded him to let untrained men become Rangers for the right price._

If I am correct—and I don't believe there's any possible way I could misread these signs so soon after I left Hibernia—all of Araluen is in danger from one of its own.

Everything is falling into place. Oswald is wary of his own heir and looking to others in his old age. The Rangers are no longer the force they used to be, and would be in disarray without Quinton. They would be unable to stand against whatever crime may be committed.

The enemy is readying himself for a coup within my own fief. Morgarath wants more than Gorlan; he wants the throne of Araluen.

I ran before. This time I stay. I will fight until my last breath.

* * *

_I am so so sorry for the long wait! I won't make excuses, I'll just beg you to accept my apology and give me a review. Thanks in advance :)_


	23. Plan

The cabin is tense all evening. I don't know whether I'm supposed to know that Morgarath can't be trusted, though Aron certainly hinted at it both the first day of my apprenticeship and during the Gathering; I was just too oblivious to notice at the time.

But there's also an air of uncertainty. Is Morgarath really such a threat? He doesn't even have the seat of a baron as yet, and I don't know what would possess a king to listen to a nobleman's ridiculous son.

Aron, always meticulous about everything, leaves cooking to me, saying I should know not to burn it by now. He sits on the porch, waiting, as I chop ingredients for a stew and cook it over our fire.

For the first time, I realize the loneliness of being a Ranger. With Aron busy, I am the only one in the cabin. I only have myself to keep me going. In Hibernia, I would have feared the isolation. In Araluen, I have to face it—this is the life I've chosen, and I refuse to give it up because I'm not surrounded by enough people.

I'm thinking about everything and nothing, completely bored, by the time Aron comes in for dinner. Luckily, even in my distracted state, the stew is acceptable. Not as good as his, but edible and nourishing.

Aron eats in silence, then places his empty bowl on the table. "I'm sorry, Halt."

I frown. "For what?"

His lips curl up into a small smile at that. "What do you think I'm sorry for?"

Answering a question with another? Two can play at this game. "What should you be sorry for?"

Aron shakes his head. "I've told you before not to answer a question with another."

"But you just did," I protest.

Aron finally laughs, his dark mood temporarily broken. "That I did, Halt, and now I have two things to apologize for."

I sit in silence, figuring he'll tell me when he's ready.

Aron sighs, returning to his glum mood. "I didn't act much like a mentor today after Crowley's letter. I was preoccupied by something he wrote, and not thinking about my duties to you and to Araluen. Halt," he says, his head falling into his hands, "Araluen is struggling, as I'm sure you've noticed. I don't know how bad it was in Clonmel, but I fear open rebellion now if we don't tread carefully."

That hits me hard; there was never any fear of rebellion from the people in Clonmel. "What do you mean, Aron? What's happening?"

The man in front of me looks defeated, nothing like a powerful Ranger as he answers. "Prince Duncan has no support, either from the nobles or the people. There are barons who hope to be chosen as Oswald's successor—because the king doesn't trust even his own son. No matter who gets the throne, there will be someone who wants it but does not have it. We will have civil war that tears the fifty fiefs apart, rendering the country unable to survive. And to top it all off, Halt, there aren't enough Rangers left to force rowdy barons into submission."

There's nothing I can do, nothing I can say to make this any easier on my mentor. Instead I choose to focus on the positives. "There are still some of us, Aron. How many of the Old Corps are left?"

"I don't know," Aron admits. "There are some whom I would trust with my life: Quinton and Crowley you know, and I believe you briefly met a few others. Cavan, Brogan, Finnian, Keith, Tarron…I'd say ten at most. Then there are another fifteen or so who were partially trained but bought silver oakleaves when they became a commodity, and their loyalty is questionable. The remaining twenty-five—half the Corps—never had a day of formal training in their lives. I'm sure you recognized them, drinking ale around a coffee fire."

"And they'll take the side of whoever gives them the most?" I ask, thinking of Morgarath, the one who made their status as Rangers possible.

Aron nods curtly. "The only problem is, we don't know how to anticipate whose side they'll choose, and if it will be the one endorsed by the King—and therefore the Rangers. We're doomed to fall to pieces when Oswald dies."

I finally swallow my fear enough to disagree. "We do know whose side they're on. They've already taken it."

Aron just looks at me like I've lost my mind. "Halt, they're unpredictable on the best of days, and so much could change by then…

"No," I say. "They'll take the side that can give them the most power. They've chosen to be Rangers over Barons or knights, because Rangers are feared. Who gave them that power? But more importantly, who has the influence to take it away?"

"Are you sure?" Aron asks quietly, leveling me with the most terrifying gaze I've ever seen.

Intimidated, I nod. "It was the only useful lesson my father ever taught me. A good ruler is feared rather than loved. Until they hate him enough to ignore their fear, they won't dare turn on him."

"Halt," Aron says, his voice constricted, "We're in more trouble than I imagined. Tell _no one_, not even Quinton or Crowley, of your suspicions. Another letter came today, while you were fetching water. Baron Varick is ill, and the healers fear he won't recover this time. Morgarath could be Baron within the week."

I shake my head. "You've said the Baron is frequently ill, yet he always seems to recover. What's different this time?"

Aron closes his eyes, his face pained. "He has officially named Morgarath as his successor. If what you say is true, and Morgarath is the threat you believe him to be, he now has no reason to want the Baron to recover. In fact, he has a vested interest in Varick's death, and it may come sooner than it would by natural means."

I shudder. I thought I had left murderous nobles behind in Hibernia, but they're in Araluen too.

"We have to give him our full support," I say, surprising even myself. "If he doesn't trust us, Aron, we'll never get anything done. We'd even be putting ourselves in unnecessary danger."

"What if Quinton orders us to make things difficult for him?" Aron asks, testing my theory.

I never thought I'd be advising my mentor, but I've lived through this situation before. On a smaller scale, of course, but I've learned from it. "We can't. He has to have no cause to be wary of us, no matter our orders."

"You're suggesting we rebel," he accuses.

I force myself to look him in the eyes as I respond. "I'm suggesting we do the only thing that has a chance of keeping Araluen intact."


	24. Half-truth

One second: Look. Raise my arms. Pull on the string. Let go.

Repeat.

All in one fluid motion, to the point where it all happens simultaneously. Aron was right about practicing; my shooting has increased dramatically in the past few days.

Of course, it does help that I've been doing precious little else with my time since Baron Varick fell ill. Aron is mostly inattentive, already silently mourning the loss of his friend, but he's nodded at a shot once or twice, if only to let me know he's still dedicated to being my mentor.

I'm already drenched with sweat on the day the Baron's messenger comes. I know I look like I've been swimming in the river, and his look of distaste tells me I must smell even worse. "Is the Ranger Aron here?" he asks, keeping a supposedly safe distance from my bow. If only he knew…

I nod, gesturing toward the house. "He's in there. Go ahead up and see him."

The man looks nervously between me and the cottage, delaying his journey to the door. Exasperated, I remember that we're usually seen as black magicians. As a commoner, this man would definitely believe that tale. Really, his hesitation makes sense, but that doesn't make it any more convenient for me. "ARON!" I say. "MESSENGER!"

Aron emerges from the cabin, looking haggard. He rolls his eyes at the terrified messenger. "Tell me the news, boy," he almost growls.

The boy, not much younger than myself, jumps at the command. "Baron Varick is asking to see you, Ranger. He asks that you bring your apprentice, as he wishes to speak to both of you as soon as possible."

Aron's previously blank face sets into a look of hard determination. "Thank you, boy." He flips the messenger a coin. "Hurry back to him now, in case you're needed to share any more news."

The boy looks more than happy to run off, putting as much distance between himself and the Rangers as he can. Aron shakes his head. "Halt, time to go. Grab Abelard—we have to hurry to the castle."

I nod, still taking the time to correctly stow all my arrows in their quiver. Aron has told me repeatedly that haste is no excuse for ruining a perfectly good arrow. "Is there anything else I need to do?"

Aron starts to shake his head, then changes his mind. "Go take a quick swim in the river. The Baron shouldn't be subjected to your stink."

Almost laughing, I race down to the river and dive in, reveling at the chill in the water after a hot day of shooting. Dirt and sweat are quickly washed away, and I race back up to the cabin not five minutes later. Aron is already saddling Gone, growing impatient with my delay. I rush to catch up with him, putting on dry clothes before I can start to prepare Abelard.

The ride to the castle is fast—I don't think Aron has ever pushed us at this pace before. Gone is starting to show signs of fatigue, though Abelard still looks as if he could run forever at this pace.

Even in our rush, Aron turns down the stable boys' offer to bed our horses down, instead insisting that we do it ourselves, to ensure proper care of them even with our time constraints.

And then we're running up the stairs, spiraling quickly to the right to the third floor, where Varick is deathly ill. As soon as we're at the door of his room, Aron visibly relaxes. He knocks, then walks in without waiting to be admitted.

Varick's head comes up off his pillow, and the first thing I notice is a sickly sweat. Like when Ferris poisoned my shrimp. "Clear the room," he orders weakly. When people fail to comply, he puts a little more force behind his request. "Now! The Rangers will stay."

Aron walks slowly over to Varick's bedside. "How are you, Varick?"

Varick only groans. "If you knew how _sick_ I am of hearing that question, Aron, you wouldn't ask."

Aron nods, and I think it's the first time I've ever seen him at a loss for what to say. He opens his mouth a few times, only to shut it again without saying anything.

"Aron," Varick says, finally getting his attention. "I'm not doing well. The medics have told me that a full recovery is unlikely, and recommended I travel somewhere warmer to relax a bit."

Aron is already shaking his head. "You'll be fine, Varick. You don't have to…"

"Yes, I do," Varick says. "I've already made arrangements. I named Morgarath my successor, and he will lead Gorlan honorably, if too pompously for my taste. I'll be departing tomorrow morning, or perhaps in the afternoon—I can't quite remember. But Aron, that's not why I brought you and your apprentice here. I need you to promise me something."

Aron nods vigorously. "Anything."

Varick closes his eyes, looking pained. "Help my son when he becomes Baron. We both know he's prone to rashness and mistrust, and he's grown close to Oswald in these last months. Make sure he thinks through his interactions with the king; I don't want him getting into trouble with an ill-timed comment."

It goes against everything we talked about just a few days ago, but Aron agrees in an instant. "I have sworn loyalty to the king and to my baron. Even if you hadn't asked, Varick, I'd do it. But I'll only be that much more attentive to my duties because they're important to a great friend."

"And Halt?" Baron Varick adds. "Morgarath worries a Hibernian in Gorlan will cause trouble. Please do your best to dispel those fears, because I know they're only in his mind."

I'm overly conscious of my accent as I answer. "I swear I won't cause any trouble. I have more reasons to be loyal to Araluen in less than half a year than I had in seventeen years in Hibernia."

Baron Varick closes his eyes as he continues to talk. "I must rest; I have a long journey to begin tomorrow. Goodbye, Halt. And Aron, the topic we discussed nearly two years ago…nothing has changed. You alone know of it. Please, my friend, remember it now."

I can clearly see Aron struggling to contain his sadness as we leave. "Goodbye, Varick."


	25. Reaction

In the stable, Aron kicks over a bale of hay with such force that I can barely believe he didn't erupt earlier.

As we gather our tack to prepare the horses, Aron's movements are rough and shaky. He doesn't notice a bucket on the ground and nearly trips before angrily kicking it across the barn, where it clangs against the wall before hitting the floor.

The stable boys scatter, obviously wanting to be nowhere near a Ranger in this kind of temper. I can't say I blame them; if Aron wasn't my mentor, I would be far away from him now too.

Gone is the only one who doesn't seem put off by Aron's behavior. The faithful horse struggles to get his attention, stomping his hooves and shaking his mane. When that doesn't work, he uses his massive head to push Aron off balance and force him to focus.

I've seen Aron fall before; he taught me how to control my movements to minimize the chance of being hurt. I've never seen him fall like this, heavy and defeated. He doesn't jump to his feet like I expect, but slowly stands up, rubbing his back where he must have banged it during the fall.

His hands are shaking as he fastens the buckles that will hold Gone's saddle in place, and he misses the clasp three times before dropping it to put his hands on the horse's back.

It's only then that I finally notice the tears in his eyes.

Aron doesn't think Varick—his Baron, but also his friend—will survive. As a Ranger, that must be the most terrible thing: to know someone is dying and you can do nothing to help them.

I don't know how to act. I don't know Varick, and therefore can't mourn him like Aron. I do, however, respect that he is still my Baron and a good friend of my mentor, which means I am obliged to feel something, certainly.

But it's the lack of feeling that scares me: I feel _empty_ like I haven't since Hibernia, and all I know is that I don't want to go back to that. I don't want to be selfish; Aron needs to focus on his own grief right now, but I don't know what to do.

I settle for doing the one thing I know. I tack Abelard, then Gone. Aron nods at me before mounting, pushing his horse into a gallop before I'm even prepared to jump on Abelard's back.

Alone, I resort to talking to my horse as I prepare to mount. "We'll let him get ahead of us."

Abelard shakes his mane. _I thought you were supposed to stay with your mentor, Halt…_

"I am," I try to explain. "But right now he's upset about the Baron."

Abelard paws the ground, his shoes sending sparks flying across the concrete floor. _Whatever that man did to Aron, we ought to make him pay._

I shake my head. "It's not Varick's fault, Abelard. He's dying."

That stops my horse in his tracks. _What?_

I sigh. "Aron is mourning already. He and Varick must have been good friends."

_So we're letting him have his space to mourn?_ Abelard says.

"Exactly," I say. "He needs it, and we know the way back to the cabin."

Abelard nods once again. _You know I won't get lost traveling home._

The ride back to the cabin is quiet and filled with not nearly as much urgency as the one to the castle. I take time to observe my surroundings—how the leaves move, separate from the branches but still with them. I listen to the sound of Abelard's hooves on the packed trail, a kind of dull thud.

I can't help but wonder how my family is doing in Clonmel. Have they bought into whatever lie Ferris has told them? Was my departure too cruel to Caitlin? How is Father dealing with the change in succession?

My wandering mind is brought back to reality when I'm suddenly near to the cabin. I hadn't realized I'd been that distracted, and Aron would certainly murder me if he'd known how unobservant I was on the trip home.

I pat Abelard on the neck, silently thanking him for getting me back here without any trouble.

As if he can hear my thoughts, Abelard snorts. _If I couldn't get you back home, what use would I be?_

I laugh a little before composing myself to enter our clearing. I can't upset Aron any more, and I know that I'll be walking on eggshells for a while after his outburst earlier today.

I quietly untack Abelard and leave him to graze, noting that Gone is nowhere to be found. Aron must not be here, and I can hardly blame him. He must be out in the forest, mourning on his own where I won't see his grief.

I'm really sick of practicing my shooting, and Aron isn't here to make me do it. I glance about the cabin, trying to figure out what other tasks need to be completed. The pots and pans are clean; I spent hours on the task only a few days ago. The cabin is spotless, as Aron insists on making sure it's clean every morning before breakfast. The water barrel is more than half-full.

It crosses my mind, just for a fraction of a second, to do nothing. That idea is shot down even faster than the notion of cleaning pots and pans; Aron would be furious if he found me relaxing rather than practicing.

I've never cleaned game, and Aron is very particular about how it must be done. It would be no use for me to catch anything because I wouldn't be able to prepare it.

We're running low on hardtack, but I don't know how to make more.

Frustrated, I sit down and run my hands through my hair. Somehow, the cabin has to continue to function as a Ranger outpost, even if Aron isn't able to concentrate. If I was a Ranger, I would know what had to be done, but I'm not. Not yet, anyway. According to Aron, it will be four more years until that day.

I settle for making a dinner out of what we have; if I'm lucky, it will be nearly done by the time Aron gets back. I rummage through our stores, slightly panicking at the small variety left. We'll have to get more soon—or I will, if Aron doesn't.

I find potatoes and onions, which I know Aron puts in stews frequently. Maybe they can even make a good stew without meat, since we have none. Today was supposed to be a hunting day after I finished my bow practice.

When all the ingredients are added to the pot, I start some coffee. If nothing else, Aron will appreciate not having to wait for the precious drink.

* * *

_Aron's reaction is a little extreme, no? I promise it will make sense later. And it's kind of positive, since Halt is forced to think for himself and realize exactly how much he still has to learn._

_As always, reviews make me write faster! I hope you enjoyed :)_


	26. Message

The messenger—that same boy from only this morning—arrives half an hour before dark. I'm sitting on the cabin's front steps drinking a cup of coffee, and he looks far less likely to run from me since I appear unarmed.

"I have a message for the Ranger Aron," he announces, holding out a sheet of parchment.

"The Ranger Aron prefers not to take it directly," I inform him quietly, hoping he won't notice that I'm covering for my absent mentor.

The boy is confused and possibly suspicious. "He took a message directly this morning."

I nod my agreement. "That was this morning, before we visited Baron Varick. Now, though, Aron is working and would really prefer that you don't get in his way."

"My orders were to give it directly to the Ranger…" he says uncertainly.

I remind myself that the Baron can't know Aron isn't here. "If you want to give it to him while he's honing his craft, be my guest, but I feel obligated to warn you that interruptions can be deadly. If he loses his focus, even for a moment—"

"His black magic could escape?" the boy interrupts.

It's easier than saying he's not here. "Exactly. For your safety and the safety of everyone else in Gorlan, it would be better to stay away. Unless, of course, you'd like to follow orders and risk your life?"

The boy shakes his head. "I don't want to die, Ranger."

"Good," I say, smiling. "Hand me the letter and I'll make sure it reaches him when he's done. As his apprentice, I can accept the Baron's letter on his behalf."

The poor boy relaxes almost instantly, but is still wary to come close enough to hand it to me.

"Toss it here," I say, relieving him from the awkward situation. It lands on the step below me, a few inches from my feet. Even though I'm dying to open it, I know I must preserve appearances for the boy who believes I'm going to deliver it to Aron. "Thank you; you can head back home now."

With no further obligations, he turns and runs back down the path. As soon as he's out of sight, I break the seal on the parchment and read the letter.

_To the Ranger Aron:_

_Let it be recorded that on this day the Baron Varick has fallen into his final repose in peace. The Baron Morgarath hereby assumes his position and informs the Ranger, as per orders of the King._

_The Ranger and his Apprentice are summoned to attend the funeral and burial of the Baron, and to discuss the future of the Fief Gorlan immediately following, in three days' time._

_Signed,_  
_The Baron Morgarath_

I wonder—does Aron know that his friend has died? He must have known that it would be soon, and the Baron's talk of travel did seem unlikely to occur.

And most importantly, will Aron be back in time for the funeral? I can only hide his absence for so long, and I expected him to be home long before dark, in time for dinner.

Instead, night is falling and Aron isn't here.

###

The morning dawns early, and Aron is sitting in the kitchen, slumped over a cup of coffee. The circles under his eyes are easily visible and I doubt he even slept. Morgarath's letter is open on the table in front of him.

"I ought to lecture you for opening my mail, Halt."

At a loss for what to say, I simply nod.

He sighs. "But I wasn't here, and you didn't know when I'd be back. In case it was urgent, you had to open it."

Again, I nod.

"I'll be there, ready to strangle Morgarath the entire time we're in his presence," he says vindictively. "But right now, I'm going to bed. There's money in the bag by the door, and the saddlebags are in the barn. And take an extra quiver of arrows. You might as well learn how to make sure we have enough food."

Without another word, he gets up and closes himself in his room. I'm left with no clue how to get our food, but I'll have to figure it out or we really won't have enough left to eat.

* * *

_Despite his grief, Aron is too responsible to leave Halt _completely_ on his own. And Halt did need a little push to get going...he didn't think he needed to do much without Aron there, but Aron is making sure he knows how to fend for himself if the need ever arises. _

_(For those of you who asked in reviews, whatever I said about how Halt will deal with it still stands. Aron just isn't being absentee in the way you all expected.)_

_Thanks for reading! The next chapter is already in the works, but will get done much faster with the help of a few reviews! :)_


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